


All the Stars Were Falling

by verilyvexed



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Telepathic Sex, happy for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verilyvexed/pseuds/verilyvexed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme fill: Erik finds Charles in his bed rather than Raven. Can be read as a missing scene, or you can squint and pretend it means the Beach Divorce never happens.</p><p>(I meant for it to be a PWP, but the Raven-in-the-bed scene takes place right after the Chess Match of No Peace, and... well, angst happened. And weird star metaphors.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Stars Were Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Written for xmen_firstkink prompt [here](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/3278.html?thread=3975886#t3975886). Title is nabbed from a Lisa Loeb song, "When All the Stars Were Falling". Thank you to kispexi2 for being an awesome beta.

After winning the chess match, Erik takes a walk to clear his head.  Some small seed of doubt had insinuated itself with Charles's words, sending tendrils of uncertainty creeping like weeds throughout his thoughts.  He tries to choke them out, but to no avail.  Some things a man decides, accepts, and then no longer needs to think about - until he does.

 _Killing Shaw won't bring you peace._

Is that what he wants, peace? If he won't get it by killing Shaw, neither will he find it here.  Erik's whole life has been leading to this point; is he meant to dismiss everything he's worked for some sheltered genetics professor ( _friend_ , some part of him tries to interject) and a bunch of clueless kids?

No. He won't change his mind.

 _But_ \--

The crunch of pebbles beneath his feet as he makes his way back to the house seems a plea to reconsider. The stars over head scrutinise him.

"My mind's made up," he mutters to no one, to the warm night air, to himself. The scent of honeysuckle clings to a breeze. He thinks briefly of Charles, pink-cheeked and effusive, self-assured and absurdly naive. And stubborn.  Charles has made his mind up, too. Regrets are useless, Erik knows.  Some things a man decides, accepts, and just does.

Besides, there'll be plenty of time for regrets later.

 

* * *

 

It is weakness that leads him back to Charles's study. He lingers outside the door but refuses to knock. Charles has probably long since gone to bed. Reluctantly, he supposes he should do the same.

Erik pushes open the door to the bedroom.  A slight pause is his only concession to shock before he shuts the door behind him.  "Well," he says, voice betraying nothing, "this is a surprise."

Charles rests atop fluffy pillows, sprawled on his side like an angelic centrefold. His cheek is propped up on his fist. "Isn't it?" he asks. "I hope it's a pleasant one. I'm not actually sure this is a good idea, but needs be and all that."

 _Needs be_.  Erik crosses to the window, pointedly ignoring his would-be bed partner.  "This isn't going to work, Charles.  My mind's made up," he repeats, and the stars outside all laugh.

"I know," says Charles, his sad smile audible.  "This... isn't actually about that."

Suspicious, Erik shoots a look over his shoulder.  Charles sits up in bed now, the duvet pooled around his bony hips.  He stares at his hands, head bowed.  Erik simply watches.  He thinks he's never seen anyone look quite so vulnerable, and then Charles raises his head.  His eyes are painfully blue and unguarded.  Erik is left startled.  How has Charles escaped the years unscathed?  

 _Maybe I haven't_ , he hears, but it's so faint that he expects he's only imagined it.  

Charles is open, receptive, defenceless, _naked_ \-- and everything in his expression is an echo of Erik's own jumbled, well-concealed thoughts.  A symphony of want and need and (love) fear plays across his features.  Erik feels his own mask slip.

 _I could hurt you_ , Erik thinks.

 _But you won't._

Charles holds his gaze; Erik turns away, stares out the window.  

 _So what now?  You can't change my mind._

 _I could_ , Charles whispers in his head.

 _But you won't._

The silence inside and out of his mind lingers.  Somewhere in the old house, a clock chimes the hour.  Erik grows aware of the sound of his own breathing.  He wonders if Charles left without his knowing, slipped out behind him, or if Charles was even there at all.  Erik could've imagined  
him, could've --  He turns hesitantly around and looks.

"Are you coming to bed, or will I be feeling very foolish walking back to my own room?" Charles asks, grinning, patting the sheets beside him, as if their mental conversation had never happened.  And suddenly Erik understands.  The mocking stars and jagged trees, the bombs and buildings and boats, the people who would hate them both and never understand, the whole great stinking incredible world outside -- tonight, it stays outside.

It's a truce.  A compromise.  A draw.

Erik returns the grin, suddenly giddy. It feels as though he's been given permission to smile, to breathe, to be someone else - but only for the evening. No sense wasting any time. He tugs his shirt loose from his trousers, rolling his neck as he pulls it over his head.  Charles doesn't even bother to pretend he isn't staring.  He looks ravenous and drunk.

 _You're gawking, Charles._

Charles's gaze flicks to Erik's face, mischievous. _If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?_

Erik snorts and kicks off his shoes. Then, suddenly playful, he holds his hands aloft and undoes his belt without touching it. Charles immediately bursts into laughter. "I wasn't aware there'd be a show. I'd have dressed for it."

"Something funny, Charles?"

"If this is just a game to you..." Charles replies, all mock reproach and stern eyebrow, the effect of which is ruined as the corner of his lip curls up into an amused smirk.

Still smiling, heady from the echo of his own fond feelings reflected back from Charles, Erik thumbs open the button to his trousers, undoes the zip, and lets them fall to the floor.  Charles's eyes draw a long, slow line down his body, then skate back up.  His inebriated-looking grin widens as he sighs.

"You are exquisite, my friend."

Erik tells himself the flutter of satisfaction he feels as he approaches the bed has nothing to do with the praise.  He pauses before shifting onto the mattress, a slight hesitation, and suddenly Charles is stretching up to meet him.  The joke on his lips about what Charles might be hiding under the covers disappears; the playful mood and all second thoughts dissipate; the light in the room and all the bothersome, boisterous stars are gone.  His existence is shaved down to a pinpoint of focus: Charles, eyes closed, flushed cheeks, lips parted, closer and closer and --

They still, sharing a breath, Charles's hands on Erik's neck, Erik's hands in his hair, lips a fraction of nothing apart.  It is a moment made for confessions, but neither speaks.  Words are redundant. They both already know.

And they both already know it isn't enough.  

His fingers thread through Charles's hair.  Charles's eyes are blurry in proximity, dark -  shadows in the shallow end of a swimming pool, giving nothing away.  "Why are you really here?" Erik murmurs, gaze dropping. Charles's body falls like a cliff face before him, from the shadows on his clavicle to the lightly toned columns of his upright thighs. His body is smooth and unblemished, lean but not hard.  

Well, _most_ of him isn't hard.  

Erik drags his knuckles lightly over a nipple and down Charles's torso and over ribs, eliciting a small, sharp inhale. Erik's fingers fan out and fall further, skating over hip and thigh. "Are you teaching me to be the better man?"  

"Erik, please," whispers Charles, words barely perceptible.  The plea could mean anything.  

Erik doesn't want to hear. He wrenches Charles closer. Charles falls into him. They crash like breakers and coalesce, mouths crushed together in perfect painful fusion. It's a kiss like a bruise: a throbbing, swollen thing that leaves them both breathless and clinging.  

Erik lets himself be dragged onto the bed and onto his back, though he immediately sits up and pulls Charles onto his lap. Charles's warm, heavy weight is sublime, his insistent erection pressing against Erik's belly. Their lips draw together of their own accord, tongues telling secrets only their bodies can know. Charles's lips glisten when they part, and his breath stutters as Erik takes him in hand.

"I wondered how long...  how long it would be," Charles says.

"This isn't going to be a size joke, is it?" Erik asks, smirking.

Charles laughs.  It's a good look for him, Erik thinks - laughing, flushed, eyes closed, rutting against Erik's hand.  The laugh goes breathy as he strokes harder, slower.

"No, I-- ahh."  Charles leans his forehead against Erik's, mouth open, making noiseless sounds.   _I wondered how long before we would be sharing a bed_ , he says in Erik's head.   _I didn't have to read your mind to know you wanted to fuck me._

Now it's Erik's turn to laugh, though it's a controlled, cagey thing that shudders his shoulders and chest.  "I suppose I should thank you for doing me this favour, then?"  Erik mouths along Charles's jaw, tasting the prickle of stubble and sweat.  

"No," says Charles as he pulls back, his eyes wide, as if he's only just realised what he said.  "No, not at all.  I meant..." His gaze meets Erik with a strange sort of determination, and a wave of want rolls over him. _I've never met anyone like you before,_ Charles tells him, completely earnest. _There_ is _no one like you, Erik_.

Erik is only dimly aware of being pushed onto his back, head cradled by the pillows, his chest tight as Charles crawls over him.  The lamplight traces his hair on either side and sets it to glowing.  He looks like some sort of debauched angel.  His eyes are imploring.   _I've seen what's inside of you.  You have the power to do so much good._ We _could be so good, you and me, together, please, won't you..._  He trails off, brows furrowing, an edge of desperation in his tone.

Erik can only stare, a burning frustration rising within him.  Charles bends to kiss his forehead, then caresses his cheek.  

Erik has had many things done to his body by many people, and some of them were even pleasant, but no one has caressed his cheek, no one since --

His mother would've liked Charles, he thinks.  The thought twists in his gut like a knife.

"Erik?"

He forces himself to breathe.  He looks past Charles, stares at the cake-frosting froth of the ceiling.

"I'm fine."  His voice sounds strained and foreign.  

Such a nice boy, his mother would think - Charles is _such a nice boy_ , she wouldn't mind that they were -- she would like Charles, he's certain, and Charles doesn't think he should kill Shaw, maybe his _mother_ would think-- but no, Shaw _killed his mother_ , Shaw has to -- Erik -- he _has_ to --

( _Alles ist gut - Alles ist gut - Mama--_ )

Erik blinks.  Inhales.  Exhales.  He won't let what he's feeling show, won't give Shaw the satisfaction.

His mind is made up.

Then he becomes aware of it, the faint condensation in his mind, the humidity fogging his memories like glass, turning his thoughts nearly tangible, opaque.  His scalp feels sleepy and he knows Charles was in his mind, listening in.  Sure enough, when he looks, Charles has his fingers pressed to his temple.

"I'm sorry," Charles begins immediately. "But you looked--"

"As if I might wish to be alone inside my own head?" Erik growls, shoving Charles aside as he sits up and turns away.  His feet hit the floor. He rubs his face.  He can feel Charles behind him, projecting remorse, compassion, regret - and beneath it all, faintly, hurt.  Erik ignores it.  There have been times in his life when all he had was the privacy of his thoughts.   _Charles should've known better_.  He thinks the thought with a vengeance, and hopes it is overheard.

It is, he's almost certain.  

Erik feels the bed shift as Charles slides up beside him, not touching but barely an inch away.  Charles's feet don't reach the floor.  Pink toes hover centimetres off the rug and twitch timidly.  It strikes him as absurd, and he fights the urge to laugh.  It feels safer somehow to be angry.

"I truly am very sorry.  It isn't easy for me to stay out of your mind."  Charles stares toward the window, not looking at Erik at all, as if saying so isn't an easy thing to do.

"Nor anyone else's," he mutters, but the anger is mostly gone.  To be angry with Charles for prying is akin to being angry with a dog for scratching its fleas. It's in his nature. It is himself Erik is angry with, if he is honest. Still so human, after all this time.

"No, that's just it," Charles says, turning to face him, sitting on his right foot. His thigh brushes along Erik's. The left foot finally sits flat against the floor. Erik smiles to himself.  "It _isn't_ just anyone, my friend, not at all. It's you. Your mind. Words can't describe..." He is impassioned, eyes alight, grinning, his hands on Erik's temples, as if trying to teach him telepathy.

There's a thought.  "Can you show me?"  He brings his hands to cover Charles's, prolonging the contact even if the answer is no.  

"I'm don't actually know how well it comes across in projection.  Let's find out," Charles says, open and grateful and seeming as if he wants to touch Erik everywhere at once but lacks a sufficient number of hands. His fingers and hands remain clasped to Erik's face.  His arms are pressed to Erik's neck and chest in a way that should be far more awkward than it is.

Charles touches his forehead to Erik's, then presses a finger to his own temple. Immediately, Erik feels Charles in his head and closes his eyes, focusing on the sensation. It's pleasant not to be alone in here. It feels like the ocean again, dark and vast, with the strange vibration of someone else's thoughts inside his head.  But this time is different; there's an echo: this is what it's like for Charles to be inside his head.  

Peace, contentment.  So much - where is it all coming from?  Belonging.

…Belonging?

He feels Charles catch the thought.   _Belonging_ , is the reply - a confirmation.  Distantly, he feels fingertips brushing through his hair.

Underlying everything is a subtle sort of hum, infinitely pleasant: the satisfying voice of a tuning fork and an instrument in perfect pitch, in unison, striking the same note over and over.  Harmony, unrelenting, reverberating endlessly in a visceral sensation akin to an ache but hopelessly sweeter.  He feels his eyes prick.  It's just this side of unbearable.

 _You're beautiful._

He isn't certain which one of them said it, thought it.  If it was Charles, he's about to disagree when Charles says, aloud but softly, "No, Erik. It's you.  I've never...  It's you."

"More," he says gruffly, his hands on Charles's biceps, tugging him closer.  Immediately, he feels taut tendrils of desire unfurling in his head, reverberations of Charles's own want.  "More."

"Yes, of course, anything, what do you--"

Erik captures his mouth then, and they kiss clumsily.  He isn't skilled enough to be smooth and right now cares only for the contact, craves as much of Charles's body, mouth, and mind pressed to his as he can get.  Charles seems to have the same idea, hands roaming as frantically as if touching Erik were a substitute for breathing.  On the floor, their toes touch.

"What do you..." Charles almost-asks, looking dazed.  There's a loop of _want-want-want_ running between them.  Erik feels a bit punch-drunk himself.

"You've seen inside my head," he murmurs, dropping his head to a freckled shoulder, kissing it lightly.  His fingertips trace Charles's spine.  "I want to see inside of yours."

Charles tenses.  Erik feels the unease beneath his hands, and faintly in his head, where he realises Charles's presence has somehow diminished, as if Charles were a radio and the volume had been decreased so gradually Erik didn't notice until he was sitting in silence. He presses flat palms to Charles's back, keeping him near.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing!  Nothing.  I just...  Well, it may not work."  

Charles's hands have come to rest on Erik's biceps, fingers dancing skittishly.  They speak louder than Charles.  Erik finds himself smiling.  It isn't that Charles is anything less than an admirable liar, it's simply that Erik has had more practice detecting lies than Charles has had telling them.  It's strangely endearing he thought Erik wouldn't know.

Charles's earlobe is held lightly between Erik's teeth when Erik calls him on it in a whisper, tongue flicking again the skin to voice a soft consonant: "You're lying."  His lowers his head and begins lightly biting his neck beneath.  

"I really don't -- mm.  I don't think -- oh, _oh_."

"Stop changing the subject," he says blithely, easing Charles onto his back.  The bed is wide and they've come to rest in the centre of it.  He spreads Charles's thighs and settles himself between them.  The warmth and the friction is a delight, a necessity.  

He's never experienced his body as anything other than a means to an end before, though the end has sometimes been simply getting off.  This is different.  He's half hard and full of wanting, and Charles's cock is an angry red from neglect - but he wants more.  He wants in Charles's head, wants to feel the mental equivalent of this absurd and perfect physical rightness between them.  

Charles is writhing beneath him, hips rutting a slow rhythm as his hungry hands pull Erik closer.  Yet the look on his face is wary.  "There's nothing to know about me, really.  Ask anyone.  I'm terribly dull."

"You're frightened."  

"What?  Frigh--no.  No, honestly.  That's absurd."  Charles won't meet his eyes, and Erik refuses to believe his chest has suddenly become that captivating.  "It just isn't a very good idea, and I don't know if I can do it.  Also, Erik, really, I think this is hardly the time, considering that we're both _quite_ naked..."  Charles finally looks at him in a way that was probably intended to be cheeky but comes out as sheepish.

"Do it," Erik growls. "You didn't give me a choice."

"I was trying to save your life."

"You did.  I'm grateful.  Thank you.  Now let me in your head."

"This rather speaks volumes as to your views on intimacy, my friend, and I'm afraid none of them are flattering.  I have--"  Charles falters under the weight of the scowl Erik gives him.  "Yes, all right, point taken.  Though I really don't know why you want this."  He rakes a hand through his hair.

Erik isn't sure why he wants it, either, only that he does.  It seems as natural and essential as wanting to drink when thirsty, sleep when tired.  But he knows it goes beyond that.  He hasn't cared in a personal way about anyone since childhood, not in a way that didn't intend on violence, and now this: a man appears in his mind, in the ocean, like some deranged siren trying to sing him _away_ from shipwreck.  Charles dissected him in an instant, stripped him bare and thought him beautiful.

How can he not want to return the favour?

But Charles isn't listening in, or else isn't convinced.  His brow is furrowed as he lets his head drop and stares toward the window.  Erik wonders if the stars laugh at him, too.

"I honestly don't know if it'll work."

 _...With me?_

"No, no, no."  Charles's hands are on Erik's face immediately, caressing reassurance.  "With anyone.  I've never tried it.  No one's ever wanted to.  My apologies, Erik - the appropriate response to your request would've been joy and gratitude on my part.  After all, that's the deepest desire of many, isn't it — to be fully known and understood?  But..."  He smiles uncertainly and suddenly, Erik gets it.

"I am of course flattered, but," Charles continues, "I feel I should have a disclaimer of some sort.  I've seen thousands of minds, each one unique in some way.  Compared to someone else, mine might seem, might seem more...  Well, everyone's exceptional in their own way, aren't they? Humans are fascinating, even those you'd think dreadfully dull just by looking or speaking with them. Often, their minds burn the brightest. You see, there are certain characteristics everyone shares, but with—"

"Is there a point to this?" Erik asks, watching him babble.

Charles smiles apologetically. "Sorry. What I mean to say is… You only get the one mind. Mine. Well, obviously, mine. But. …I fear I may disappoint. It isn't... Ah. What I mean to say is, thank you for your interest."  By the time he finishes his face is a brilliant scarlet.

With a single finger, he turns Charles to face him.  "You will never disappoint me," he says, voice low.  It sounds like a command.  He kisses Charles to soften the blow.  "Do it," he whispers against Charles's lips.

Charles touches his temple.  

Erik gasps.  There's a jolt like waking abruptly from a sound sleep; for a moment, he is equally as disoriented. Following comes a sensation of floating, of feeling his way around, of sinking and settling and clicking into place.

And then he knows.  Everything.

He is aware of his own consciousness, but also, here, like a chamber within, always there but never before noticed, there's something else.  Charles.  He steps inside.

Charles is thinking, inexplicably, of rabbits.  Oh: he had a pet rabbit once, whose fur was soft.  The hair at the base of Erik's neck is so soft it makes Charles's chest hurt.  Erik gets a glimpse of the pain, of the fur, of the sensation of his own hair against someone else's fingertips.

Charles is afraid.   _Pleasepleasepleaseplease_ runs on a loop in his periphery, a perpetual prayer, and he doesn't even know what he's praying for.   _Please._  He doesn't want tomorrow to come.

Erik pulls mentally away.  He's no longer sure which fears are his and which belong to Charles.

"Sorry," Charles breathes against him.  Their lips are still touching.  

Erik kisses him them, rough and needy and too uneasy to let go.

Charles's memories are all in the not-a-room, too, like an endless library of facts and dreams and thoughts and properly arranged periodicals and publications.  With half a thought, Erik can pull them forward.  For the moment, they are half his memories, too.

Kissing, they are kissing, and Charles's first kiss was a girl named Shelly, who had blond hair and was two years older and laughed when it was over.  There were forgotten kisses, and Erik could feel Charles's mind reverberate with the recollection, bristling with old-new information as he remembers Angelica, that summer, under the magnolia, her parents were just inside the summer house, he hadn't forgotten her name, only misplaced - and then there was Dawn, whom he had kissed, and her brother Anthony, whom he hadn't kissed, but had wanted to.

Erik rolls himself and Charles onto their sides so as not to crush him because he needs to be closer, and closer, and closer still.  Their legs entwine.

There were more kisses -

 _Why are you thinking about my kisses?_

 _Is it bothering you?  I'll stop._

 _No, I merely thought the fixation unusual, but perhaps not, considering -_

and thoughts given to this kiss, this never-ending kiss, more a declaration of need and a sharing of breath than anything two tongues and mouths might casually do.  

The emergence of Anthony brings on a string of memories of kisses-that-weren't: all men, and recently, all Erik.  On the road, in the back of a taxi - _I wanted you so loudly I can't believe you didn't hear_ \- and every night, in every motel room, when Charles went to bed alone.  On the grounds, during training, after Erik had successfully moved the satellite and he knew there were bigger things going on, more important things in the world, and then Moira had called out the window over the presidential address - _should have should have should have._  Breakfast, this morning, "Could you pass the orange juice" _and by the way I love you_ and later, earlier, during the chess match, inextricably tangled with the fear, Erik leaning forward to move a rook and Charles gripping his glass of scotch and _obviously this is important, what we're discussing, but I want you so much I can barely breathe._

Charles is trembling, his grip on Erik's shoulders vehement, as if he has to hold Erik down lest he fly away.  Erik kisses his face breathlessly, an anointment of affection.  He isn't going anywhere.

And he knows Charles doesn't want him to.  Erik, housed in both their minds, can see Charles's desires unfurling, making themselves plain.  Images, sensations, and scattered syllables assail him: Charles on his back, Erik filling him, the two of them ebbing and flowing into ecstasy.  This is how Charles wants him: inside and above, forceful without being brutal, rough without being harsh - Erik as a whole, both in his mind and his body, his severity tempered into beauty by something softer.  By Charles.

Erik can't not touch him.  His hands roam over the soft warm shapes that compose Charles, the cascade of want a litany in his head.  It's a sort of magic, a type of gift: he knows precisely where Charles likes to be touched, wants to be touched, needs to be touched - and how.

The reverse is also true: he can project his own wants to Charles, or could if he had any.  Charles seems to pick up on the thought.   _I'll teach you to want_ , he says silently, grinning.  He looks so utterly lecherous, so thoroughly debauched already that Erik can't help but laugh.  And yet it serves a purpose.  He knows he does want.  He wants Charles.

It's an all-encompassing sort of desire.  Charles's, thankfully, is more precise.  His sides are fairly ticklish, so Erik avoids them (for now).  His fingertips ghost circles around Charles's nipples and he is rewarded with the faintest of sighs. The indentations of his own hips aren't really of any interest to Charles, but Erik finds them fascinating and demonstrates just to what extent, with his hands and his fingers and his tongue.

Erik has never done this before, never wanted to, but he finds himself setting on elbows between Charles's legs, dropping a kiss to the warm flesh at the crease of his thigh.  Charles sits up on his own elbows.   _That really isn't necessary, I assure you_.

Erik grins.  "Are you really going to stop me?"

Charles opens his mouth, presumably to say something.  

"Lie back, Charles.  You can return the favour next time."

His stomach does a belated lazy flipflop as he realises what he's said.  Next time.  They will do this again.  But really, was there ever any doubt?  Apparently there was, he thinks, as he feels a wave of gleehappinesspleasurewant from Charles.

Charles tastes of the ocean.  Erik knows it's simply the salt of his skin, knows logically it couldn't possibly be the sea.  But he tastes it regardless, deep and dark and unfathomable, harsh and smooth all at once.  Familiar yet exotic, warm --

 _Charles_ , he thinks, and does not know why.

He feels a hand in his hair and moans around Charles, then feels the discordant pulse of Charles's thoughts fragmenting in response.  The resultant surge of power is heady, a familiar friend in these strange waters.  Each pistoning movement of his fist, each swipe of his tongue or wet pop of his lips causes Charles's breath rate to accelerate.  It's a hazy sort of poetry, the breathy noises Charles makes against the back of his hand overlapping the brightly-coloured whorls of the pleas inside his head.  

Yet Charles is restrained, almost dignified, with only the occasional whimper or involuntary twitch of his hips betray his want.  Even when Erik stops only to resume lower, as he knows Charles wants, mouthing and tonguing at his balls, there's only a bitten-back moan in response.  

Erik looks up, raises a brow.  "Am I boring you, Charles?"  His words are muffled by the spit-slick head of Charles's dick.  He resumes sucking without awaiting a reply.

Charles toes curl into the bedsheets.  "No--no, ahhh, not at... mnf."  

And yet Charles is holding back.  Erik has no real complaint - giving fellatio is considerably more enjoyable than he would've guessed and, if the strain Charles is exerting to keep himself is composed is any indication, Erik may have discovered a hidden talent.  But Erik is curious.  He can see this is good for Charles.  He can sink inside Charles's mind and know just how hard, just how fast and just when to pull back to undo him completely.  

Why, then, isn't he undone?

Every muscle in his body is clenched tight, resistant.  It isn't repression; Charles's thoughts show clearly enough he accepted this bent long ago.  

 _What's wrong_?

 _Nothing, I--... assure you_.  Charles's voice in his head is breathless.  That, at least, is gratifying.

 _If you won't tell me, I'll have to look_ , Erik taunts before recalling Charles's sexual past.  He sifts through the memories, ignoring Charles's silent _!!!_ of protest. There's nothing exceptionally wild to see, but Charles had been reasonably enthusiastic. Erik turns then to the fantasies and only catches a brief glimpse of himself fucking Charles against a wall before the thoughts blink out of existence.  It's only then he becomes aware of the door.

It isn't a door, no more than the room of Charles's consciousness is an actual room, but it might as well be.  And it's locked.  What's more, he realises it's been here the entire time he's been in Charles's mind, only he hadn't noticed.  Or, possibly, hadn't been _allowed_ to notice.  
 _  
Open it._

 _Later._

 _Why?  
_  
"There are more pressing matters at hand," says Charles, curling up with catlike ease. One slides his hand down Erik's arm, all slow supple movement with his fingers splayed. The other stutters down his chest and comes to curl around his cock. "In case you hadn't noticed." Erik didn't know Charles was capable of sounding like that.

Erik is torn between an upswing of lust and outright bewilderment, but the change of subject is cemented when Charles licks his lips: lust wins out. Erik can't remember why he'd even been distracted. Charles brushes fingertips lightly over the pulse point of Erik's wrist, then out to his palm, extending his hand. Erik feels him moving in his mind then, nudging him to pull the desk chair toward them.

Erik raises a brow, but he reaches to the nails in the chair and does as he's bid.  The chair shoots toward them and comes to a halt, hovering just beside them.  Charles kisses him, reaching out blindly for the robe.  Erik's eyes close and he's lost for a moment, floating, Charles brushing all his edges, but then he comes back to earth as something is pressed into his hand: a pot of petroleum jelly.

"I trust you know what to do with this," Charles murmurs, then drops back down with little of the grace he'd shown getting up.  He wriggles his hips and smiles pleasantly.

"You're spoilt, Charles - making me do all the work."  Erik _tsk, tsks_ at him but pops the top off.

The lubricant is thick and oily, glistening on his fingers.   Charles's hips are angled up to meet them.  Erik slides his other hand over Charles's arse, fingers dipping into the cleft between his cheeks. Charles's stomach instantly goes concave.

"Relax."  Erik drops a soft kiss on Charles's knee.

"Yes, of course, sorry," Charles murmurs with a look of consternation.

Erik kisses the other knee.  Charles seems to relax. Erik pushes a finger in. The heat is spectacular.  He meets with resistance only temporarily. Erik fucks Charles slowly with a single finger, watching the fascinating play of expressions across his face: mouth a loose o of something like wonderment, brows furrowed, eyes shut.  When he begins pushing hips back, Erik adds a second finger.

Immediately, Charles pushes against him, needy and shameless. Erik spreads his fingers, stretching, then curls and reaches, searching out the prostate.  He finds it and Charles whimpers.  Erik's insides turn to liquid fire.

"More," Charles pants.

A third finger goes in roughly, triggering a satisfied hiss in reply.

By this time, Erik is so desperate for friction that he's ready to rut against the bedsheets. He coats Charles further, quickly, and himself at the same time, sighing at the contact.

And then he presses against Charles, and then he pushes marginally in.

"Oh," says Charles, voice guttural, and the conflicting tailspin of thoughts is dizzying: _yes no ouch ow ow no yes want yes oh god please more no ouch wait no ouch god please more now_ \--

His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, as if thinking hard. Erik holds himself in check until Charles's thoughts settle into a succession of mostly _more more more_ before pushing in further.

There's another noise this time, sounding of something like surprise. As Charles's hands come to his hips, locking him in place, Erik drops into his consciousness. _Yes_ is his only thought. Charles feels pleasantly filled. Erik projects the tight, ecstatic heat back to him and the sight when he looks down at their bodies neatly joined. Charles's legs tighten around him in reply, heels digging into his back, urging him to move.

Erik makes no attempt to conceal his desire or the greedy grunts escaping him. The music of their sex is intoxicating: his percussive exhalations; the breathy, somehow astonished gasps coming from Charles; the rapid-fire slap of flesh-on-flesh.  What little composure is left to Charles is rapidly dwindling. His thoughts lose cohesion when Erik takes him in hand. Erik's body too feels in ascent, the long slow rise before the shambolic somersault tumble into orgasm. The telltale heat pooling in his balls and belly say he's close. And when he falls, he wants to take Charles down, too.

Erik is dragged groaning into bliss by Charles clenching and coming unglued around him.  And then:

 _"Erik-- Erik-- Erik--"_

Breathing erratic, fisting the bedsheets, and then a succession of stars gone supernova, the explosion plainly visible in Erik's head as Charles comes over his hand and his own stomach.

Erik sighs, content, and drops down beside Charles, panting, trailing his fingers through the semen on Charles's belly. He can't stop grinning. They're still turned the wrong way on the bed and he wonders idly if they should just pull the pillows down here and sleep like this. It isn't until he reaches for the robe to wipe Charles off that he notices. The apprehensive look on Charles's face tips him off.

The door that wasn't a door at all has been blown off its hinges.

New memories have slotted into place. In retrospect, he realises he had felt them rearranging themselves. The fantasies are there (he looks only briefly, and only at the ones that feature him), embarrassing memories (he makes a mental note to tease Charles - _You wet the bed until you were how old?_ ), all the things he's done that he isn't proud of (Erik doesn't look, doesn't want to see - except, _Really, Charles, you use your gift to pick up girls in bars?_ , although, granted, he would've done that as well if could've gotten away with it).  And still, more. Hidden lowest, tucked beneath the others, sits the dark bedrock of Charles's history: another set of memories.

These aren't happy ones.

It takes Erik roughly three seconds to process the gist of them.

"I'll kill them."  Kurt Marko and Cain Marko join the list of names on his personal hit list, in positions number two and three.

After tomorrow, they'll become one and two.

"Please, Erik, calm yourself.  It was all over many years ago."  Charles rolls onto his side to face him and touches his face gently.  Some - but not all - of the fight goes out of Erik.  

Never will all of it go out.  He has his bedrock, too.

Erik doesn't argue the point, but obviously it isn't over. Charles wouldn't have hidden it if it was over. He starts to sift through Charles's memories to make his point and realises they aren't there. He is alone in his own mind. The absence of Charles leaves him aching.

Something must show on his face as Charles gives him an apologetic look. "My apologies. It's taxing holding a telepathic link." His fingers thread through Erik's hair. He has the grace to look sheepish as he says, "Doubly so constructing a barrier."  

"But how can you--"

Charles rubs his face wearily as he sits up.  "Kurt Marko is dead. I don't know where Cain is, nor do I particularly care to find out." _Can we change the subject?_  He finishes towelling off with the robe, then passes it to Erik.

Erik doesn't press the issue. His anger has subsided, replaced by the lethargy that follows satiation.  "Of course," he says, pushing himself up. He touches his lips to Charles's shoulder and is rewarded with an affectionate smile.

They migrate to the head of the bed and slip beneath the covers.  Erik curls around Charles as soon as he's settled, then reaches out with his powers for the brass pull-chain of each of the lamps only to find the lamp on his side of the bed has crumpled in on itself.  Shattered fragments of the bulb lie scattered on the table below.

"Er," he says.

Charles peers over Erik's shoulder and laughs. The worry from earlier has seeped from his face. "I fully expect you to make that up to me."

"I fully intend to do so." And he means it. He stretches an arm over Charles, using reaching for the uninjured pull-chain as an excuse for an embrace. They share an unhurried kiss as he flicks his wrist and sends the room into darkness. "Good night."

"It was, wasn't it?" Charles smiles at him, stretching beneath him. He is traced silver by the moonlight.

Charles rolls back over. Erik nestles in behind him and tugs him ever nearer. Physical closeness will have to suffice in lieu of sharing mental space. He presses his nose to Charles's neck and breathes.

Either Charles picks up on the nature of his thoughts or was feeling something similar. A drowsy voice mumbles in his mind, _Perhaps I should've focused more on my own powers this week. With practice, I'm certain I could hold you in my mind longer. And it could be quite useful, apart from the... er... extracurricular applications._ (Erik suspects Charles is blushing.) _There are obvious benefits to being able to create effective an effective barrier and hold it regardless of the external situation. If you were amenable to helping, I could attempt to conceal a thought - purely as practice, of course - and you, Erik, could, ah…_

 _Yes, Charles. Go to sleep._

He can feel Charles smiling in the dark and feels rather than hears his contented sigh. They want the same thing. Erik isn't sure that's ever happened to him before.

Charles has made his token protests, but Erik has seen inside his head. After his stepfather, after the terrible things in the minds of humans Charles has met, how he could possibly hold any love for them? And he's a geneticist; he's said so himself: mutants are the next stage in human evolution. No man of science would try to hold back progress. No man who thought mutants could peacefully coexist with humans would train them for war.

They have their differences, but, really, they're on the same side.

Out the window, there's not a star in sight, only the moon hanging against the black backdrop of midnight. Charles's chest rises and falls in steady measure. Erik presses one last kiss into Charles's skin before letting himself drift off.

Maybe, he thinks, this is how contentment feels.  He is warm, he is comfortable, and his hand lies flat against the smooth plane of Charles's stomach, holding him close. He can't remember the last time he felt this relaxed. And tomorrow, he will kill Shaw. Then, after that...

He smiles to himself, shifting closer to Charles.

Everything is good.


End file.
